Mentionitis
by lena1987
Summary: Complete. Rose Weasley-Granger meddles with the love life of the over-forties. Fluff, with a side of A.A. Milne's Winnie-the-Pooh, just in case it needed further sweetening. EWE. Written for savine-snape, in the SSHG Gift-Fest 2017.


Written for my lovely friend, savine-snape, during the SSHG Gift Fest on livejournal, 2017.

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to JK Rowling and associates. No copyright infringement intended.

Summary: A tale of meddling, magazines, and Winnie-the-Pooh. Starring: The Granger Girls, and a baffling man.

* * *

Mentionitis

"You're making me do this because you think it was my fault! It wasn't!" Rose wrenched the car door open and shoved her head inside before her mother could take off. "This is a punishment!" she hissed. "Ugh!"

"You wish!" Hermione shot back. Her gleeful cackle was terrifying. " _You're_ the one who orchestrated it, I know that. But you're sixteen. _You_ grin and bear it. I'm not having anything to do with it. Oh, no, dear daughter of mine. This is not a punishment."

Rose gave an exasperated growl. "Then what is it? As a side note, at least we both agree that there really is no point in punishing me."

"It's summer hols, darling. You wanted a lift somewhere. You got one!" Hermione trilled, and revved the accelerator.

Rose squealed and darted back just in time to shut the door as her mother took off, albeit as quickly as the old, farting Mitsubishi Colt would let her. Rose cringed, turned on her heel, and swept through the doors of the Workington library. Once inside, she looked around, blew out a loud breath, and then stalked to the far side of the main building, aiming for a cluster of quiet-looking desks.

"Bloody punishment all right," she grumbled, stopping herself from throwing down her bag at the last minute. "Nine in the morning on the first day of hols and she chose a library!"

 _"Shhhh!"_

She harrumphed. Without turning around to see the shush-er, Rose slumped down in the seat. Her fingers began tapping on the tabletop as she stared listlessly at the stacks. She bit her lip. Tapped on the desk some more. Tossed her hair over her shoulder. She wondered what on earth she was to do now – study? They hadn't even sent out the new textbook lists for her upcoming seventh year. Shifting so she could get at her shoulder bag, she dug through it and pulled out a small packet of chewing gum.

There were books everywhere, of course. It wasn't too different from home, but her phone would work here at least. Grinning, Rose pulled it out of her pocket and flipped it open, closing it with a huff a moment later when the screen showed no new messages.

 _What to do, what to do…_

Quietly, she eased her way out of the desk and made for the opposite wall, stacked high with magazines, CD cases and DVDs. Trailing her fingers along the backs of the films, Rose paused when she reached the magazines.

"Anything," she groaned to herself, wishing her mother had deposited her anywhere but a library to fill in the half-day Hermione was required to put in at work during the quiet summertime. There was the Burrow, though Rose was more than glad Hermione had obviously understood the subtext of Lily not joining them for their customary drive home from Kings Cross the day before. At least James Creevey was still talking to her, though fat lot of good that did when she was certain that she was in for the loneliest summer of her life.

She picked six magazines, from fashion, through to some pink looking thing that had: _How to Get a Bloke to Ditch the Lads for You!_ on the cover, along with a famous person that Rose had no idea at all about. Lest she was scolded again, she tiptoed back to the desk and sat. Before beginning, Rose sighed and stared at the bare grey ceiling. She counted the windows; the aisles; the fans overhead. She counted the people waiting at the front counter: two. The mothers sitting in a small circle, with their babies pawing at instruments while a staff member warbled to them: five. The enthusiastic shush-er who was behind her, at an angle: one. Down her gaze went, to the backs of sitting patrons now, and she counted the women: three, before moving to the boys: none, and then men: three. One sitting on the other side of the room, his head in a newspaper. Another shuffling through to the audiobooks. And another, sitting right there, just a few desks in front, his back to her. His head was bent over the desk. His black hair was cut to just above his shoulders, which were broad and lean under a plain black coat. Pale, long-fingered hands were steepled together on the desk, revealing thin wrists and the cuffs of a dark blue shirt. Tilting her body to the side, she saw long, denim clad legs stretched out in front of the man.

There was something familiar about those legs. With narrowed eyes, Rose frowned at the blue jeans. They weren't right, somehow. They fit, yes, but they didn't quite seem to suit… almost as if he were not _supposed_ to be wearing jeans, and was certainly not _supposed_ to be leaning back in a chair in Workington library with his hands now crossed behind his head as he lounged comfortably, obviously considering something, his frame otherwise held remarkably still. It unnerved her. There was only one other person that could be so odd and so singular, so detached from everything going on around him, to the point where even Rose orchestrating an entire class to rebel on a recent test could not faze him, because he could look _right at you_ as if he could _read your mind,_ which was impossible, but he always seemed to _know—_

"Blimey," she said weakly, suddenly aware that Professor Snape was seated a few desks in front of her, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

.

.

On an unusually busy road leading out of Workington, Hermione Granger-Weasley sat at the wheel and fiddled with the radio dial. She flicked between the channels, gagging at Tom Jones, doing an awkward jig to Ed Sheeran, before finally settling on a classics station that was playing the Pretenders. She absolutely refused to think on now being classified as a _classics fan,_ when it was only ten years ago when – no, fifteen – oh, but actually maybe it was twenty…

"Good grief," she declared theatrically, smacking the steering wheel. The Colt gave a slight shudder and she patted the dash in a misguided attempt to soothe. "You can do it, old girl," she said, gaze darting from the side mirrors to the rear, then back to the road. "Only ten more minutes."

The road to the Apparation point was hardly used. It was lined by hedges, though how that was managed or maintained she had no idea considering they were smack in the middle of suburbia. She pushed on, following the winding road. The hedges crowded closer in. This was what she loved about England; what had drawn her back from Australia years before. That there were these little pockets, little private spaces, that felt as if they kept all kinds of secrets; all kinds of pasts. Hermione smiled to herself as she drove, then pulled over when the hedges began to widen out again. As usual, there were no other vehicles near the fence. She'd only come this way in order to drive onto her parents for a quick visit after work. Tinkering with the Colt was the balm of her father's batty heart. She wished Rose would have agreed to come; she could've pottered around Hermione's office the way she used to when she was younger. It'd take time to deal with the embarrassment, though.

Hermione's parents had been there when the red envelope almost _sauntered_ through her living room window less than a fortnight before.

"Oh, god," she'd said, standing slowly. "My god. This is my first time. Mum – remember this."

Helen Granger's eyes widened and she scrambled for her ever-present camera that was tucked into the inside pocket of her handbag. She angled it to her daughter, including the scarlet envelope in the frame. "Quick – make a face!"

Hermione clapped her hands to her cheeks, ala Edvard Munch. There was a flash, then a delighted giggle. "Perfect!"

"What's this now?" Richard wandered in from the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron.

"A _howler!_ " Hermione said, pointing at where the red envelope was now hovering in the air above them. "I should open it. It'll only get louder the more I ignore it. But this is the first one from the school! It's all part of the experience. The quintessential moment."

"Moment of what now?"

"Rose's buggered something up, Mum. Something big. Or, big enough to make them bother to contact me. But not big enough to actually come and get me. Ooooooh, it's smoking!"

 _Whirrrrr – click!_ went the camera.

Five minutes later, Hermione was standing stock-still. She was caught between feeling terribly amused, and nostalgic.

"Oh my," said Helen.

"Indeed," added Richard. "At least it was something good. Something meaty."

"She encouraged a whole class to cheat!" Helen cried, shaking her head. "Wherever did _that_ come from?"

"Oh, the Weasley side, to be sure."

"Probably right, Richard. I'll give the teacher this, though. He's got rather a… _delicious_ voice."

Hermione put a hand to her chest and smirked. "You can say that again."

.

.

Hermione turned off the ignition and got out of the car. The wind immediately sent her hair all over her face, sending her twisting around, grumbling loudly while pushing the strands out of her eyes.

"Right!" she declared, standing straight and tugging on her blouse. "Time to go, tiddley pom." She marched to the gate, eased herself through it, then closed it with a decisive thud. "Off to work, tiddley pom; to earn a crust, tiddley pom; while my daughter, tiddley pom; sits reading." It didn't quite have a ring to it, but Hermione had abandoned being self-conscious at exactly the time when a midwife had ordered her onto her hands and knees and examined under her bottom rather thoroughly, declaring that it was indeed time to woman-up and push.

A second later, she was gone.

.

.

Now that she had begun to think about it, Rose had never, ever—and she really was sure, as she had spent nigh on an hour pondering the very topic—seen Professor Snape outside of the castle grounds. Not in Diagon Alley. Never in Hogsmeade. Not when she'd spent most of her weekends in second year visiting St. Mungo's.

He was a permanent fixture of Hogwarts. She remembered when some of the fifth years had had a party months ago and bet on whether Snape really was a ghost, tied to the castle as punishment for being so horrid over the decades. But he wasn't really, Rose thought. Not horrid, anyway. Aloof. Grumpy. Sensitive, that was certainly true. Prickly. And surely he _did_ leave the castle sometimes. She couldn't really blame him for doing so secretly.

Rose checked her watch. He'd hardly moved in an hour. She, too, had sat silently, surreptitiously mapping his body language. He seemed… relaxed. But bored. Dreadfully bored.

Should she go over? It was only polite. He'd never really bothered with her previously, apart from when she organised for everyone to answer the same thing on every question last week. And it wasn't cheating – really it wasn't. It was all just so horribly _dull_ half the time. Regulations for senior Potions classes had been changed before she herself entered Hogwarts, and now everyone who wished to could study at the sixth year level—which cut down the numbers a fair amount—but only those who passed the final examinations of the year could progress through to seventh year. She was sure she'd passed. And those two final weeks dragged and dragged and dragged. Why on earth he'd even bothered to assign another little test, Rose was sure that even Snape himself had no idea. It didn't count for anything. It didn't contribute to anything. It was…

"Bollocks," she muttered, tossing her pen down.

When he'd read all of the answers at the end of the period, he'd walked out immediately. Five minutes later, he stalked back in, deducted 50 points from Gryffindor—which explained Lily's fury at losing the cup at the last minute—and declared that, "You, Rose Granger-Weasley, had better explain yourself."

"It was… I just wanted to…"

"Spit it out," he grumbled.

"Liven things up a bit?" she whispered meekly, staring up at him. He looked down at her for a full minute. He frowned, then, for a fleeting moment, looked quite calculating indeed.

"Right," said Snape.

And that was that.

 _Right._ What was she supposed to do about _right_?

He hadn't spoken to her for the rest of the school week. Everyone else was over the little stunt, but Lily was still ignoring her. James still nattered along beside her but without Lily, she was cut off from half of the entire House. Still, it wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last. That was Lily – she threw herself into everything, and sometimes it benefitted Rose, sometimes it didn't.

As for Snape… she spent each meal time trying out poison-detection charms on the pumpkin juice. Gods, but he was _scary._

So what was he doing in Workington library?

With a decisive nod, Rose got out of her chair.

.

.

Hermione's office in London, not far from the entrance to the Ministry, was the usual jumble of folders, notes, parchment, biros, quills and books. At least they were stacked in order. She took a moment to check the in-tray, absentmindedly spelling off the remains of what a disgruntled order owl had deposited upon seeing no treats in the dish. She grabbed the small pouch in the third drawer of her desk, and emptied it into the dish for next time.

"One request," she muttered, skimming the parchment before rifling through the rest. "Correspondence… three… bills… oh, goody, only one." She tapped her wand to it first and watched it glow an off-putting orange, before it flashed to a bright green. "Journal subscription, paid," she whispered to herself as she grabbed her diary and flipped to the back, marking a tick beside the journal name.

It would have been easier to have an assistant, but she didn't see much point. What work she did now was decided and organised by herself anyway, and she didn't much fancy the idea of sharing her office. She rented it from a company that she shrewdly suspected was somehow controlled by Draco Malfoy, and she'd never quite forgotten the thrill of her fist connecting with his nose, but the location was perfect and there was a coffee van that stopped outside the door every afternoon.

Moving the request for assistance into the bottom of her current pile of work, she turned next to her correspondence. "Ginny, Luna… and… ooooooh," she said, smiling though she was entirely unaware of it, "Professor Snape again."

.

.

Rose paused just behind his table. He was so unnaturally still, but she'd been quiet, and unless he had eyes in the back of his head, there was no way that he'd—

"Miss Granger-Weasley," he intoned, and she gave a strangled yell.

 _"_ _Shoooooooosh!"_

"Oh, shoosh yourself!" she grumbled, whipping around to scowl randomly behind her. Not even the prospect of a scolding by the librarian was enough to deter her now.

She turned back around and came face to face with Professor Snape. Still seated, his head was inclined upwards as he looked at her, one sardonic eyebrow raised.

"Good morning, sir," said Rose, proud of her firm voice. He said nothing, and she gave an awkward little cough. "I just noticed you here and wanted to come and say hello."

"You just… noticed me here," he said flatly, his expression not altering an inch.

"Er… yes."

"And you wanted to… say 'hello'."

"Erm, yes?"

He surprised her by waving a hand to the chair opposite. "Well don't just stand there gawking. Sit down. If you get me kicked out of my Monday library, you'll be…" Snape pondered the thought. "Something. You'll be doing something."

"Wow…" she muttered, before she could stop herself. "Threatening."

"Sit," he ordered, and she walked to the other side of the table before easing into the chair. He narrowed his black eyes, considering her, then reached into the blazer he wore. She watched, intrigued, as the tip of his wand emerged and flicked, no doubt muffling their conversation.

"Something, sir?" She couldn't help it.

Snape rolled his shoulders. "It's my summer too, you know. Couldn't be bothered."

"To think of a punishment?"

"Deterrence takes skill," he snapped back, folding his arms. "What do you want, Granger-Weasley?"

The Professor didn't at all seem as unapproachable in jeans as he was in billowing robes. Rose leant forward in her chair.

"I meant it: I came to say hello. It'd be rude otherwise. And also to apologise."

He flapped a pale hand in the air. She suspected he would've rolled his eyes if he could muster the energy to care that much. "An apology is useless. The act is done, and you would only prolong the unnecessary by fixating on it. A poor attempt, as well. Your uncles would…"

"Disown me, yes."

"A good thing, probably."

"Not really. I like F & G."

"F & G?"

She tittered. "It gets a bit much. I'm already a hyphenated name. Uncle Fred and Uncle George is asking too much. Besides, they hate it."

"Oh?"

"They check for grey hairs all the time. I think they'd rather they were still living the glory days."

Snape gave a little shudder. "I think not."

"Well," she said matter-of-factly, "what are you doing here, sir? Do you live nearby? I do."

"Do you now?" he said slowly, cutting her a sideways glance.

"We moved two years ago. Did you know that Cumbria topped the Life Satisfaction Index?"

"I did not…"

"Mum researched it. So here we are."

"And are you…?"

"Eh? Am I what?"

He blew out a breath. "Did your mother prove their findings true, then?"

"Oh. I guess. She likes it."

"This is odd, Granger-Weasley," Snape said idly. "Are you going back to your table anytime soon?"

"You invited me over!" she exclaimed, tutting. "I don't have anything else to do until Mum comes."

He sat up a little straighter. "And when is your mother coming?"

Rose checked her watch. " _Uggghhh._ Not for another two hours."

"She is working, then?"

"For a little while. She's going to visit my grandparents after that. Then she'll be here. I'll have to choose some books."

"Yes," he said dryly, "I assume you are starved of them at home."

Rose laughed, then paused, thinking how completely weird it was to hear Professor Snape _joking_. "Erm, not really. And hey, what did you mean when you said, your Monday library?"

He looked entirely uncomfortable. Uncrossing his arms, the wizard screwed up his lips. He looked down at the desk, then back at her, sighing resignedly. "I come here on Mondays during the summer holidays."

"Y-eeeeee-s," said Rose, emboldened by the fact that he surely couldn't poison her in full view of the librarians, "but you said… your _Monday_ library. That does imply that you have others, sir."

"I certainly will not be telling _you_ ," he sneered, and for the first time Rose noticed the stack of books and magazines on his table.

"Woah, sir," she said, reaching for the pile, "are you catching up?"

He swatted her hand away and pulled the pile towards him, glowering. "On _what_?"

"On life!" Rose answered. "They're all recent magazines. And that book was released a few months ago. Mum went to the signing. And is that – is that Winnie the—"

"It is absolutely none of your business," snarled the disgruntled Professor. "Are you ever going to return to your table?"

"Oh, right," she said, wincing. "Yeah. Sorry, sir. Enjoy your summer. And, erm… Maybe see you next Monday?"

He blanched. "Merlin save me."

.

.

Hermione spent the morning at her desk, pausing for a tea break at 11 _._ Stretching, Professor Snape's envelope caught her eye. It was Hogwarts standard issue, but if she leant a little to the left, arms still above her head, she could just make out the last few letters of her surname in his spidery script. She bit her lip. Her pile of to-dos had diminished somewhat, and she was on top of things, as she always was… Besides, it would only take a minute…

The witch grinned, pushed up the sleeves of her navy work robes, and grabbed the envelope.

 _Ms. Granger-Weasley,_

 _Was it so entertaining, then? The usual response to a Howler is not some giddy little note, but a serious agreement by the parent to discuss the behaviour with the student in a manner that they see fit. Are you sure you didn't react with one of those banshee shrieks you were so fond of in your school days?_

 _Nevertheless, I shall answer your question. No, I do not believe Rose was 'acting out', as you put it, and I am sure there will not be a repeat performance. I am trialling a new style of deterrence. No doubt it will be successful in her case._

 _No, I have certainly never heard of that book. Whatever gives you reason to think I would be even remotely likely to pick up a book on adolescent development? I rather think I see more than enough of the charming hormonal miscreants as it is._

 _\- Professor S. Snape._

"A new style of deterrence?" Hermione put the letter down flat on the desk. "Oh my god. He hasn't changed a bit." She threw her head back and laughed harder than she had in years.

.

.

 _Professor Snape,_

 _Your obviously well-founded reassurances for my daughter have put me at ease. I thank you ever so much. It is such a balm to my soul to know that you are there for Rose, and for all of the children, so steadfastly guiding them by your skills of… deterrence._

 _\- H. G-W._

.

.

 _Ms Granger-Weasley,_

 _There is no need to thank me, Madam. I simply do my utmost each and every day, for I believe that children are our future, and must be respected accordingly. I shall never cease in striving to guide them along the path to maturity. What an honour it is._

 _Prof. S._

.

.

The owl came back later that same night, guided to her home just outside of Workington by the automatic charm that diverted personal mail sent to work after hours. The sink was bubbling away merrily, washing the dishes from dinner. She was sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of tea in her hands, Rose's music thumping away on the floor above her. She'd picked her up after grabbing a quick lunch at Mum and Dad's. Rose had bounded out to her car, then groaned as she buckled herself in.

"Arrrgghhh!" she growled. "I forgot my books! I checked them out properly and everything!" She slumped down in the seat.

"Well, go and grab them," Hermione prompted, driving into a nearby spot and turning off the car. "I'll wait here."

Rose glanced at her. "My legs hurt."

"Pssch," said the witch. "Go on. Exercise is good for you."

"No, look, it does hurt." Rose held up one of her sneaker covered feet. "See there?" The hem of her jeans was wet. "I slipped when I went out for morning tea."

Hermione reached down and pressed on Rose's ankle, grabbing her wand from where it had been standing in the middle cup holder. Murmuring, she tapped it gently to the reddish mark just above her daughter's ankle. "There you go. Fine. I'll go get them, but you owe me the TV this evening. Deal?"

"Deeeeeal," Rose muttered, watching as Hermione pointed her wand at her navy robes, turning them into a shorter trench. Her usual light blue jeans that she favoured under her work robes went well enough.

Hermione got out and waited for a gap in the traffic before hurrying across the road. She entered the double doors of the library and surveyed it quickly. Sure enough, there was a small pile of books on the main desk and she huffed before marching over.

"My daughter's," she explained with a wry smile to the librarian. "Left them behind." The librarian gave her a smile as she gathered them up, then turned to leave. That is, she would've left, really she would've, but really, who on earth was _that_ —

 _Oh, ding dong…_

There was a man on the other side of the library, bending right over as he pulled his own stack of books together. He was wearing jeans, some sort of black coat, and his back was to her, giving her the most _delightful_ view…

Hermione flushed. Honestly – she was behaving worse than one of Mum's ladies at Bingo. With one last, long look at the denim clad backside—and _oooh,_ lovely black hair—she strode out of the library and back to the car.

At home now, she put down Snape's reply and walked slowly into the living room. The photo on the main bookcase of Ron standing with her and a young Rose at King's Cross Station caught her eye, as it always did. She drew in a deep, quiet breath and crossed the room until she was eye to eye with him. She would've talked to him two years ago – told him about Snape's Howler and Rose's morning at the library, and her Dad's attempt to clean up the car. A year ago she would've mentioned the nice view when she'd dashed into the library. Now she simply stood and stared for a moment, lost in the memory of that bustling morning when Rose had first gotten on the train. The fleeting kisses on cheeks; the desperate hugs; Ron's terrible attempts at being stoic when his bottom lip was trembling. Hermione brought the tea cup to her lips and drank, holding the warm liquid in her mouth before she swallowed and turned away from the photo. The couch beckoned. She flopped onto it, grabbed the remote, summoned a Twix and flicked on _Luther._

.

.

Later still, Hermione returned to the kitchen table. The house was silent now, in that dark, still time of night that she had always loved best. She picked up his reply, skimmed it again, grinning, and recalled how swiftly the owl had arrived here after she'd sent hers off in the afternoon. She wondered, with a tiny little thrill, if he lived nearby. Would it be too late to respond? Did he want her to? Did _she_? Besides, she'd only find out if he was near if she _did_ send something. She glanced at the kitchen window and then at the wooden perch near the larder where Piglet usually napped. He wasn't there – she could call him…

With a decisive nod of her head, Hermione sat and grabbed a biro pen and paper.

 _Professor Snape,_

 _Yes, well, I'm sure that would pass a lie detector. Nevertheless, I do think you have done well by Rose, and you have my thanks._

 _How have you been recently, Professor? Because they do say that a greeting without any exchange of thought, some give and take, gets you nowhere. I don't think I've seen you since you assisted on that case last year. I was just about to thank you again for your analysis, as it tied things up neatly for me, but thought I should refrain. Thanking you twice would only serve to put us on an odd playing field, what do you think?_

 _As usual, Harry sends his regards. (Well, he doesn't, or rather he hasn't today, but I couldn't think of anything else to write to end this and he does always mention you.)_

 _\- H. G-W._

There. She grabbed an envelope and slid the letter inside. Crossing to the kitchen window, Hermione lifted it a tad and called out softly. "Piglet?" She attempted a whistle, then went to boil the kettle again. By the time it was done, she heard the sound of flapping wings, and the small owl flew to his perch.

"Good evening, dear Piglet," she cooed, grabbing a treat from the bowl near the sink and letting the tawny bundle of energy nibble gently on her thumb as a greeting. She took the letter, and held it in the air. "This goes to Professor Severus Snape. It shouldn't be too far – have you the time, love?"

Ron had always laughed under his breath at this but she swore that Piglet had an admirable streak of independence that other owls didn't have because of it. The tiny owl flew and caught the envelope, before flying out the window. No doubt the prospect of possible treats at the other end spurred him on.

His reply arrived within the hour. Piglet was fast, for what he lacked in size he made up for in enthusiasm, but Hermione knew—and with this realisation came not a small amount of inexplicable triumph—that Snape was close-by. She had been reading while she waited, and when Piglet came flying in, she gave a delighted little gasp.

.

.

 _Ms. G-W,_

 _If that were true, and nothing could happen without some 'give and take', as you say, I'd be having conversations of this nature with everyone who does me the ill-favour of greeting me and that would truly be horrible. Regardless, as you have asked, and it seems rude not to answer—_

 _I am well now, and have also been well recently. Parent-teacher evening for future first years is approaching, which is the highlight of my social calendar. Sing ho! for the life of a teacher._

 _Your second round of thanks are acknowledged. (Because you wrote them in, and in the spirit of things, I am choosing to receive them. You're welcome.) Are you still working for yourself and not back in social services? Is it not below your capabilities to be holed up somewhere when you could be out picketing? Nevertheless, I did not hate your most recent article in the Quibbler re: ethics & vulnerability. I wonder why it is that you continuously choose that magazine? Although I suppose your articles are opinion-based, not factual, so perhaps it works._

 _S. S._

.

.

She should go to bed. Really, she must. It was late, 9am wasn't getting any further away, Rose would be up at the crack as usual…

Hermione pressed her lips together. She held onto his letter and stared at Piglet, currently on his perch, looking very high and mighty for one so small.

"Right," she said, then, quickly: "or not. One more won't hurt."

 _Prof. S.,_

 _Sing ho! indeed. It sounds riveting. Actually it should, it'd be so interesting to start your developmental assessments that early – I'm so glad the school started all of that. Do you ever meet a child and just think: here he is, the devil incarnate? Or: here, this one will make me remember why I teach? Sometimes I used to have these moments, usually with the goblins, tricky beings that they are, but sometimes with children, and it would just remind me of why I enjoy doing what I do. I suppose that answers one of your slightly-rude questions – no, I like practicing independently. I like to work alone now, and am a little proud of myself that I am established enough in terms of reputation, to be able to go it alone. I'm still on the board for the not-for-profit I used to manage, and do a lot of consultancy/planning/advocacy/all of that stuff for other places. I didn't really see myself in this sort of work so early on – I always thought I'd do this as a sort of lead-in to retirement. But Ron's death knocked me over. I couldn't look at a child, or an elf, or anyone really, and truly know that I cared from my heart, apart from doing it all mechanically. It frightened me. I don't know why I'm even admitting it now, as I am still ashamed of it, but I still think I did the right thing by stepping down from working in the field. I'd like to go back in the future, but not for a while yet._

 _I send my articles to the Quibbler because I want them to be accessible. Not all professionals can afford journal subscriptions, and truth be told, sometimes I can't be bothered with the pedantic shites! Revisions drive me mad._

 _So, give and take and all that: what do you do when you're not at Hogwarts?_

 _H._

Was that too personal? She'd just bared a layer of her grief to him. Surely asking what he was doing with his spare time wasn't too intrusive. He'd once had a whole conversation with her at a conference that was entirely based around the competing desires he held around academia: to publish and teach and encourage until everyone finally realised that he knew what he was talking about, or to drown the whole headquarters of the European Guild of Potions in discount wine from Aldi and set the place on fire. She remembered being sure of two things: that gods, there was so much that she had to iknow/i about that man, and also, that she really would like to see him pushing a trolley around Aldi.

Not too personal then. She licked the seal, pressed her fingers down and held it out to Piglet.

"I'll be in bed," she said, "stay out a while, if you want." The Professor would get the message if Piglet didn't take off for a while. Besides, it was probably going too far if she mentioned she was going to sleep… he put up with her, but there was a line with Snape, and though she didn't really know where hers was, she knew he had no qualms about dismissing people from his life entirely if they crossed it.

.

.

Mum was hiding something. She was doing that thing – that thing where she hid in the conservatory and did things without saying what the thing actually was, and then coming out all normal and bubbly and asking if Rose wanted a hot chocolate. Rose spent the rest of the week wondering about it – about the thing. Piglet's perch was often empty. Her mother came home straight after the end of her half-days at work. On Saturday, she went out and returned an hour later with a reusable Aldi bag and boxes of German biscuits. Rose stayed home that day, sure that if Mum was out, there'd be some way to search, some way to find out…

But there hadn't been. There was only a stack of books in the conservatory, one about Potions patent regulations— _does it get duller?_ —and one about a vet in Yorkshire, with the usual A.A. Milne at the bottom. There was nothing that Rose's magazine suggested – she'd borrowed it from the library, and it was half full of tripe, but there were some things there. How to know if a bloke or a lass was interested. Something about self-love and tips for cutting a twat from your life. Clues to know if it might be a good idea to go from friendship to something else. There was even a bit on where to put your thumb in your fist if a turning a bloke down needed a bit of oomph. She'd started scraping galleons together to exchange and order the shirt underneath that particular article, a navy one with NASTY WOMAN on the front. Perfect for Mum's Christmas present.

It was Sunday afternoon now and after listening to Gran and Grandad's ho-ho'ing and ha-ha'ing about her stupid howler that morning, Rose was wandering around the garden, looking for something to do.

"Mum?" she called, putting a hand over her brow to shade it in the sun.

"What?" It came from the conservatory. She was in there again. Gods.

"I'm bored."

"Read a book."

Rose huffed. "Don't feel like it. I'm boooooored."

"Being bored is good for you," Hermione called back. "Gives your brain a chance to work it out."

"Oh my goooood," Rose groaned, grabbing a fistful of lavender and shaking it gently. Mum was too happy! Too lively! Too… "Witty," Rose grumbled. She often thought her mother could give Professor Snape a run for his money, if ever they got talking. He was prickly but she was bloody scary sometimes. 'Brilliant, but scary,' Dad had said from time to time, making her mother flush with pride. She loved being scary – the ability to be intimidating. Rose remembered when it used to embarrass her, when she'd pretend Hermione was more like Aunty Ginny, baking cakes and biscuits and privately coaching Quidditch stars on the weekends. She was thankful for it now, though. She had Mum in her corner. That was nice.

Sometimes Rose thought over what had brought her parents together in the first place – Dad had always been so different, so quietly relaxed. He was outside of Mum's world, in a way. They'd fought a bit. But the fights were good ones – funny ones. Rose had come to realise that her mother relished arguing with Dad, because she always dissolved into laughter halfway through from something he'd said and her body seemed to deflate, as if worries she'd been carrying around from work had snuck out while she wasn't looking. That was nice, too.

"Rose?" Mum called, distracting her.

"Yeah?"

"Why don't you water the garden?"

"Oh god. That's me. Garden waterer. So exciting. So unforgettable. So enthralling."

Hermione's laughter was loud and rich. "Good words. Great words. See – your brain's benefitting already!"

Rose threw up her hands and stomped over to the hose, hiding a grin.

.

.

"I think I'll go to the library again," said Rose over breakfast.

Hermione paused, with the spoon of porridge halfway towards her mouth. She recovered and smiled. "All right. Need a lift?"

"Maybe I'll get the bus."

"Okay. Have you got enough change?"

Rose rolled her eyes. "It's an electronic thing now, Mum. Remember, I set it up last year. You use your card, and tap it on the thing, and—"

"Right, right." Hermione scraped the last bit of porridge from the bottom of the bowl. "Yum. Do you have change on the… card?"

"I think so. I put a tenner on last time." Anyway, she had change in her pocket, but that was for a packet of crisps. Mum shrugged.

"Okay, if you want. I'm home all day, so if you need me just ring." Uncles F & G had worked out how to combine Muggle cellular technology with magical residences a few years ago. Mum had called it a godsend – Rose rather agreed. It was awkward enough to ring your mother to pick you up – even worse if you had to whistle for an owl and wait for a bouncing otter to respond after that.

"Aren't you doing anything today?"

"Erm, no…" Mum said slowly, shrugging. "I don't mind pottering around here. It's nice."

"But you'll be all alone."

"Well, yes," she replied, staring at Rose like she'd caught fluxweed sprouting from her head. Rose found herself examining the framed poster that had been on the wall by the kitchen table since they'd moved in here, and then for years before that, of a young boy, walking through the woods, a bear beside him.

"Mum?"

"Hmm."

"What did the howler say? From Professor Snape?"

Mum gave her The Look, the sort she gave a work case, or an appliance that didn't work, or a bill to pay. "Don't let it give you any ideas."

"Why would it?"

"It wasn't very… er… serious…"

"Ooooh." Rose felt a little tickle of hope. "Go on, then."

Mum dropped her voice, glowered a bit, and growled: "Your daughter Rose has done the most uninspiring act of rebellion that I have ever witnessed in my career thus far. It has been dealt with. See that it does not continue, lest I expire from boredom."

"No! I feel like an idiot." She did, too. Gods. Mum had probably edited her recitation, which added another layer of red to Rose's blush.

"Well, anyway…" Mum bent her head and gave an awkward splutter of a cough.

Rose shrugged too. "Anyway. Maybe you should come to the library. There's heaps of people there."

"Yuck," shuddered Hermione. "I hate people in libraries. They always talk. Bah."

"You sound just like—" Rose stopped abruptly. _Oh my god._

"What?"

She blinked. "What? Nothing."

 _Oh my god. Oh my gooooood._

Rose left soon after. There was a magazine in her knapsack.

She had a theory to test.

.

.

He was there. She knew he would be. He was even in the same seat. Same blazer. Same jeans. Same black boots. A brown button-down underneath this time.

"So, sir, there's this thing," she began, sliding into the seat opposite. Snape glowered at her and she lost her nerve a bit, then thought, well, she could be bloody scary too if she had to be. "Good morning. How was your week?"

"Uneventful," he said, dragging out the word. "Peaceful. _Quiet._ "

She cast the bait. "Mine was fine. Quiet, too. Did a few things with Mum. That sort of stuff."

His dark eyes narrowed. "Bully for you."

Rose stayed quiet. Gamely, she looked over the stack in front of him. There were two recent newspapers. A thin volume on grief. One DVD. Mum had that one at home. The man on the front looked uncannily like the Professor, she'd always thought. Snape was still staring at her – trying to intimidate her away, though without his formidable sneer, he was as threatening as a standoff-ish cat. She wouldn't give in. Determinedly, Rose set her knapsack on the table and got up to browse.

When she came back, a paperback in hand, Snape was scowling at the newspaper. She sat down, looked up at him, and grinned.

"Is this some form of newly devised torture?" he blurted in a hiss.

"I don't know what you mean," she said blandly.

Snape closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. He tipped his head back, then let it hang forward. "Fine," he muttered, still staring at his lap. "Conversation, is it?"

"We could do that."

Grumbling under his breath, the prickly man gave her a look that was part considering, part long-suffering.

"What sort of things?" he said eventually, returning to reading the newspaper.

Nonchalance. _Ha!_ Rose patted her knapsack and the magazine inside. "The usual."

"What… is… the usual?"

"Oh, I visited my grandparents. That was nice."

"With your mother?"

"Yep."

"Right."

"Yeah, and I went into the Ministry on Friday. They do a good lunch there."

"Hmph. For your mother's work, I take it."

"Nooo," she said, flipping open her book. "Just to see Uncle Harry."

Snape groaned a little. "I would've thought," he commented, "that you would have respect for libraries in your blood."

"Probably should," she shot back cheerfully.

"And what is 'the thing'?" he asked, giving up on the newspaper. "You said: 'there's this thing.'"

"Er…" Rose put her book down. She could still be wrong. The diagnosis was there, right there, but really he could just be humouring her, could just be trying to make her leave him alone…

There was nothing else for it.

"I was just wondering if you had seen my mother recently."

Snape's eyebrows flew up. He was speechless for a moment. His cheeks went a brilliant pink. "Why?"

 _Oh my goooooooooooooood!_

"She never told me what your howler said! I know you sent one. She still laughs about it. Gran took a picture of it, you know." Well, Mum hadn't told her at the _time…_

He snorted despite himself. "Did she?"

"Yeah. I was just asking, because I thought you should know about that. I know sometimes you see each other at conferences. So you were aware. You know, that sending the howler didn't work."

Snape was back to being evasive. "I do not follow."

She was going to shoot herself in the foot. "Don't you pride yourself on making sure that kids don't repeat their, um, wrongdoings?"

And that was when she saw it. He leant forward in his chair and gave her the oddest look, as if he were sure that she wasn't as ridiculous as she was coming across. And his blazer opened, just slightly enough to show that there was something tucked into the inside pocket, something that was inside a slim white envelope, the sort that her mother brought home in bulk from Grandad's study, and as he put one arm on the table, the blazer opened just a little bit more, and she saw it, right there on the envelope—

Her mother's handwriting. Her mother was writing to Professor Snape. Professor Snape was writing to her mother.

Rose thought hard about this. It was one thing to suspect. It was another to _know._

.

.

 _H. G-W—_

 _I have a small routine reserved for summer holidays. It depends entirely upon what I am interested in on a particular day. I assume it would not be lost on you that being left to my own devices is a luxury I do not often have, and so the weeks of summer are usually quiet, dull at times, and intentionally uneventful. In short: bliss._

 _This year I have decided to do the preposterous thing of choosing one day per week to study one particular subject. For instance, Thursday mornings are dedicated to York. I have given myself the task of finding one fact per visit that I did not previously know. Wednesday afternoons are reserved for studying the richness that is absolute quiet. Tuesdays I spend at the library in the London Guild offices – I'm sure you can infer the subject. Friday is reserved for Charing Cross Road or Durham, depending on which barista I feel like ignoring before venturing forth to conquer the second hand books. Wednesday mornings I spend in Chetham's library – hence the afternoon to recover from the gaggling tour groups. Have you ever been? Chetham's is not dissimilar to the Hogwarts library._

 _I find that the assessments are most useful for knowing how to put my apprentice to work. That is why it was made mandatory for all fully qualified Professors to have one, after all… in exchange for my supervising one major research submission and what feels like countless hours of classroom instruction, the apprentices are responsible for one-on-one assistance for all students that I have identified need different approaches in order to ensure that they are able to brew without blowing up the entire castle. Re: your exchange of thought, I will say that it is almost enjoyable to instruct to a group when there is an aide to assist those I previously would have spent much time with._

 _Since you asked, and I assume you did so with an ulterior motive of forcing your 'give and take' to continue on, I will suffer the indignation and ask: what do you do in the summer holidays?_

 _S._

.

.

 _Prof. S.,_

 _Ha! All right, if you want to play it that way._

 _In the summer holidays, I take full advantage of the fact that the majority of magical England calms down. It took me two years to realise that since there is only one magical school in the United Kingdom, and there is not a huge amount of magical beings, everything else seems to slow down when the children are out, too. Far be it from me to realise that school holidays impacts on the majority, perhaps with the exception of Diagon Alley and Fortescue's. So, I work half days and am out by one on a busy day, and eleven on a good day, because it is always good to have a little something at eleven o'clock in the morning and going home after a tea break is the epitome of bliss, as you may say._

 _I rather like your routine. Does it vary each year? Do you set yourself new places – new libraries? I love the idea of a holiday all around books, coffee and rambling around lovely places. Are you open to suggestions for next year? You might try the NML - the Millenium in Norfolk. It's new. Quite flash, if I do say so myself. I took Rose last year but I'm not sure she really appreciated it. Sometimes I think the apple didn't fall far from the tree with her, and then other times the mind just boggles._

 _I remember you telling me a little about the apprentices at a meeting once. I wouldn't mind one of those! How do you decide who you get? Do they apply? Do you all sit in the staff room and fight over the best ones? Do you get to pay them a traineeship wage for a while? Quite a clever financial decision for the school then, ha._

 _There are a lot of questions in this reply. I wonder if it might be easier to meet in person one day. You didn't mention standing Saturday plans. Or Mondays, for that matter._

 _H._

.

.

She shoved it into an envelope and threw it into the kitchen before running out again. Piglet was already out the window with it before Hermione gave a loud, "Gah!" and ran back in. "Oh, god, it's gone." She stared as the figure of her owl became smaller and smaller in the distance.

She'd done it. Oh, lord, she'd gone and invited him out. For a date? No, he wouldn't think that would he? But she wanted him to. Hermione twisted her hands nervously. She did want him to. She wanted to meet him somewhere, to see him outside of work, or school, or anything related to the two. The realisation hung heavily around her. She hardly knew what to do with herself. She didn't even know where he _lived_. They'd crossed paths on and off over the years since she'd left school, and there'd always been a shred of feeling in her that dusted itself off and perked up when he was near. Just a small thing – something built around fascination and intellect and the unknown.

Hermione sat down at the table. She couldn't see Ron's photo from here. Was there injustice in that? Her husband, the father of her daughter, was invisible in this part of the house. Had she done it consciously when they'd moved here two years ago, desperate to leave the fog of sadness that was their former home near Ottery St. Catchpole? She tilted herself back in the chair and craned her neck, staring at the photo. Was it too soon? Four years; forty eight months. There was a strong pit of guilt inside of her that refused to be dislodged. Hermione suddenly felt hot with anger as she railed against herself. Why should she feel guilty? She wasn't betraying anyone. And, _furthermore_ , she thought, drawing herself up a bit, it was just an _invitation_. He could decline. He could even meet her once and then have nothing else to do with her! She didn't have to close one door on her life in order to open another.

"No," Hermione declared into the air, quietly placing her palms down onto the table. "I don't have to do that." She stood, feeling foolish, and oddly giddy. "Time for tea, tiddley pom…"

.

.

He did not reply the following day. Nor the next. In fact, it took a week.

.

.

Rose marched into the library on Monday, her head held high. She'd planned this down to the last second. Her mother was walking around the house looking unsure of herself one minute, and excited the next. She was humming under her breath. She'd taken to singing that song from Winnie-the-Pooh all the bloody time. She was going barmy, Rose thought, but she couldn't quite muster the energy to analyse the whims of the over forties.

There he was. Same table, same clothes, red shirt.

Rose strode over. Snape stood up, and faced her head on. He crossed his arms and glowered as he towered over her.

"Sir," Rose said hurriedly, "there's, erm, er…"

Gods. He was so bloody intimidating.

"Can you stop… looming?"

Blinking, the Professor stepped back. "What?"

"Sorry," said Rose. "I just find it hard to say what I want to say when you're sort of in my face like that." She decided privately that her mother was mad, too, and had the oddest taste in men.

He had a funny look on his face, almost like he was trying not to laugh. "Right. What do you want to say?"

"Not here, sir, if you don't mind. Monday library, remember?"

Snorting, he followed her outside. The librarians looked mighty glad to see them leave. She walked a little way down the street, Snape loping along at her side. He seemed taller on the street but diminished somehow, like a normal person, not at all like the teacher that most of the school avoided.

She stopped outside of a chippy. "Okay. Can I ask you something, sir?"

"I think you're going to," he replied slowly, looking uncomfortable again.

"Well, I've come up with a diagnosis. For what you are. What you're doing," she added, not getting why he was becoming more and more baffled. "You've got _mentionitis_ ," Rose said triumphantly, nodding. "Did you know?"

Snape stared at her, his eyes wide, his mouth quivering. Then, she thought she'd died and gone to anywhere but here, for he bent over and laughed loudly, a laugh that went on and on until he got a hold of himself.

"Sorry. I've got what?" he asked, rubbing his forehead. "What are you going on about?"

"Mentionitis," she repeated firmly. "You can't talk to me without mentioning my mother. You can't ask me a question without making it go back to my mother." His face was growing paler by the second. She soldiered on. "Every time I mention my mum, you pay attention to every single thing. Everyone knows, sir, that when you go on and on about someone, you _fancy_ them."

"Jesus Christ," he breathed, as still as stone.

"Don't be rude. Anyway. I've come to demand that you do something about it."

He recovered, and shoved his hands into the pockets of the blazer. "You should've been in my House. You're just like your—" Snape stopped himself, stunned. "God. It's true. You're right. Mentionitis, hm?"

"Yep." Nodding seriously, Rose checked her watch. "It's ten thirty. You've got just enough time."

Astutely, the Professor grinned. There was enough of nervousness there for Rose to feel quite superior indeed. "Give me ten minutes," he said, then turned and strode down the street. She watched as his coat whipped behind his body in the wind.

.

.

Hermione went out into the garden, then went back inside again. The sky was beginning to darken with rain clouds. She needn't water the flowers. She sat in the conservatory and tried to read, which failed spectacularly. She'd gone into work, then brought her jobs home with her. She'd had a long shower, a large cup of tea, five squares of chocolate, and still couldn't keep still. She wanted to feel ignored and let down by Snape, who still hadn't replied to her invitation, but Hermione couldn't shake the feeling that—

The doorbell rang. No-one ever used it. Frowning, she walked through the house to the front door. Out of habit she looked down at her clothes, jeans and a thin blue jumper, before patting her curls. Her socked feet took her to the door near the kitchen, and she opened the door, giving a quick gasp of shock.

"Hello, Hermione," said Severus Snape, standing on the welcome mat, holding a small package in his hands with a tray of two matching take-away cups of coffee. She stared at him, floored, and he smiled a little. "Sorry to, ah, surprise you when you weren't expecting…"

Suddenly Rose appeared from behind him and flew in through the door, jolting Hermione into breathing again. Her daughter hurried up the stairs, giggling all the way, then her bedroom door slammed shut.

"Hello, Severus," she managed, unable to meet his gaze when there were jeans to see, and blazers and _red shirts_ and, oh, warm coffee—

"I apologise for not replying," he said, looking at his boots then back at her. "It took me a while to… work out what it was that you really meant. I had a little help."

"And you'll really have to tell me about that," Hermione murmured, stepping to the side. Her body felt warm; relaxed. "Come in."

He stepped over the threshold and paused beside her. He was so close, too close, and somehow she stayed standing when he bent his head and pressed his soft lips to her cheek.

"I will, thank you," said Severus, drawing back. He looked as if he couldn't believe what he had done, and she beamed at him as he moved past her.

"What have you brought?"

"Oh," he said over his shoulder, setting the coffee down on the table. "I always like to have a little something at eleven. Don't you? A little smackerel of something."

Hermione put her hands on her cheeks and laughed. "Yes, yes I do."

One of his hands disappeared into the package. "Croissants, pastries, er, chocolate too, I wasn't really sure so I just grabbed something of everything… biscuits… shortbread…"

She turned and closed the door. The smile did not leave her face.

.

.

 _The end._

 _And also this, because really, the inspiration should be noted. It's only fair, don't you think? – H. G-W._

· "Because when you've been walking in the wind for miles, and you suddenly go into somebody's house, and he says, 'Hallo, Pooh, you're just in time for a little smackerel of something,' and you are, then it's what I call a Friendly Day." – Pooh.

· "No Give and Take," Eeyore went on. "No Exchange of Thought. 'Hallo – What' – I mean, it gets you nowhere, particularly if the other person's tail is only just in sight for the second half of the conversation."

· "The more it – SNOWS-tiddley-pom, The more it GOES-tiddley-pom, The more it GOES-tiddley-pom, on snowing."

· "Pooh always liked a little something at eleven o'clock in the morning, and he was very glad to see Rabbit getting out the plates and mugs; and when Rabbit said, 'Honey or condensed milk with your bread?' he was so excited that he said, 'Both,' and then, so as not to seem greedy, he added, 'But don't bother about the bread, please.'"


End file.
